A Sissy Saga Ch. 14

Miriam Hancock rarely absented herself from Fairyfield during term-time, but the need for extra finance to fight off the threat of the National Trust meant her having to take time off to cajole, threaten or physiologically squeeze her donors. Alec Grimshaw was a case in point, he had not contributed for quite some time and to see him she had to travel to York.

During the drive south she took the opportunity to appreciate the countryside and view the bloom of the Yorkshire moors in all their Byronic summer glory. Her eyes constantly strayed over the towering flanks of the fells as if seeing them for the first time, gazing up at the high tops and the patterns of walled green fields won from the yellow moor land grass.

That summer was turning into a scorcher, the grass was parched. Weeks of unremitting heat seemed to have drawn every last drop of moisture from the soil, but weather, no matter its type, always dramatised the rolling landscape. She'd calculated a two hour drive to reach the county town, and as a break to boredom she'd decided to visit a potential client on the way. A stop-off would not only be refreshing it could also provide some income in the future, so it seemed sensible to kill two birds with one stone.

The hamlet of Codswallop was just a few old grey stone houses of one or two storeys nestling together under tired and sagging grey slate roofs, and she swung her car at a fork in the road to head between them. On the other side she dipped her foot on the brakes just before a humpbacked bridge to ask a farm labourer for the location of Sitt Garth.

The house she sought squatted on the west side of the village where a shady lane lined with gorse and briars snaked up the side of the dale. It had whitewashed walls covered with climbing ivy and clematis, a thatched roof, and a trendy brightly painted cartwheel leaning nostalgically against its gables.

Pulling to the side of the road she climbed out. The sky was a piercing blue arc above, unblemished by cloud, the golden sun a perfect sphere, and on that balmy summer morning nothing stirred. Not a blade of grass or a leaf moved; the only sounds being the faint buzzing of bees hovering about clumps of willowherb embedded in a crumbling brick wall.

A moderately attractive woman in flat shoes greeted her at the gate of a small front garden. She was holding a watering-can, but was clearly expecting a visitor. "Miss Hancock?" Miriam smiled, and the woman smiled back. "I'm Mrs Pumphrey. We spoke on the phone. I'm so pleased you decided come in person. Come around the back of the house, it's shady there and I have some Pimms on ice."

Miriam followed behind her into the sanctum of a small, cool garden surround by high brick walls. The garden was remarkably well-tended - lawn, koi pond, waterfall and a massive clump of honeysuckle. The rear of the house was lime-washed and enhanced by earthenware tubs spilling out lemon-scented ivy leafed geraniums. There a small table and some basket chairs were set out on the flags of a modest sized patio.

A face peeped out through a small window, hair set in banana tresses and the epitome of the girl just home from school, but from the previous telephone conversation she'd had Miriam knew that the girl was in fact Mrs Pumphrey's son.

"Is that Freddy?" she asked.

"I call him Felicity when he's being a girl." Mrs Pumphrey replied, then turning to the face in the window she called softly. "Do hurry up, Felicity; Miss Hancock is impatient to meet you. Put on your loveliest girly things and come out here or Mr Strappy will have to make a visit."

The face disappeared and the woman offered a slight sigh, "I've always been very supportive of Felicity's sissiness. I've shown him how to wear make-up and polish his nails, and even taught him to walk in high heels. But now that he's attained maturity it has become more and more difficult for the sweet boy to hide his true nature. Worse, he's beginning to experience funny feelings. Sex feelings. Feelings that makes his popsy stiff and drippy when he's in the company of certain men. My intention is to invite a local gentleman to come and lodge with me at Sitt Garth, but I fear problems arising from the arrangement unless I find a suitable place for Felicity.Fairyfield Grange has been recommended to me by a number of ladies of my acquaintance."

Miriam smiled warmly. "It's flattering to find my school so widely known and well thought of, and of course I'll help you in any way I can."

"I shall miss him of course," continued the woman thoughtfully, "But he can't stay with me forever, can he? Every sissy-fag must break his mummy's heart and her apron strings at some time."

Miriam leaned back in her chair and studied the woman for a moment. Her clothes were well cut and expensive, if unimaginative and worn without flair, and there was a volume of poetry at her elbow, so she was clearly quite cultured. Was she an out-at-elbows heiress or an authoress who found inspiration in the loneliness of the moors?

"Sitt Garth is an unusual name for a house, even when one understands that garth is the Yorkshire term for a field." she said.

"It means 'field of the River Sitt," the woman smiled wryly in return, "Unfortunately there's never been much of a river since the larn at Skeriton was turned into a reservoir, but one shouldn't be too selfish or sour. There always seems to be a shortage of water in Yorkshire when there's a good summer, so the sacrifice serves a purpose."

The koi pond shimmered like pewter as they watched the golden shapes moving beneath the surface. For a while they chatted amiably whilst sipping Pimm's and chilled lemonade, but it was a delay longer that Miriam had anticipated and she began to feel restless. At last the crisp trip-trapping of high-heeled shoes on the patio tiles announced the arrival of Felicity, and if he had been sweet looking peeping through the window, he was gorgeous now.

A doll-like creature, lipsticked, beribboned, perfumed and pantied and as glamorous as any chorus-girl at the Folies Bergere as he minced slowly before them, one hand on his hip and the other held out in a limp swish. Even from several feet away she could detect his delicious perfume, an undeniable feminine scent. Miriam had viewed enough sissies to gauge a good specimen when she saw one, and this one was exemplary. His expression was three parts innocent angel and one part tantalising streetwalker - the combination that through the ages had driven men insane with desire.

She at once saw the problem that Mrs Phumphrey was facing. Even the most honourable man around the house would find an eighteen year-old wiggling his pretty bottom at them a constant temptation, especially as Felicity appeared to enjoy being as loose as a goose whilst wearing tiny skirts and spiky high-heels. Without such paraphernalia he would still be naturally attractive, but with it he was a world-class cock stiffener.

As the sweet girlish creature passed in front of her she assessed him more closely. Felicity was now a slinky, slim-hipped seductress with silky, black seamless hose on his legs and strappy shoes with four-inch pencil heels on his feet, and he'd also adorned himself with a lacy garter belt and a tiny camisole that only reached the top of his pubic region. His face was heavily made-up, feminine lips as red as a fire-engine, huge eyes artfully emphasised by black eyeliner and lavender eye-shadow, and thick heavy lashes.

At the end of the patio he turned and made a second pass. His nearness was a dream. She could hear the rustle of his clothes as he moved and the hiss of his nylons skimming together. "The transformation is quite remarkable." she remarked.

Her sissy son blushed with the shades of a summer sunset, pale pink skin and raspberry cheeks, and hair the colour of vanilla wafer. He was someone who would sizzle but never tan. "Oh, mummy. The lady - she'll see - everything."

"That's the intention," his mother insisted, "We mustn't hide anything from Miss Hancock. Show her what a lovely sissy you really are."

The sweet princess looked uncomfortable, almost distraught at having to remove his skimpy pants, but down over his nylon clad thighs they went anyway, allowing Miriam to view his goodies, perfect, pink and not at all distracting from his girlishness. A lovely broad cock draped prettily over a pink wrinkled bag that was the home for a pair of fat grapes.

When his eyes met those of Miss Hancock, he noticed that she was looking at him in a curiously provocative way. Her lips were slightly parted and the tip of her tongue played within the shadows. When she saw he was looking at her, she let her eyes roam up and down his body. Felicity didn't seem to know how to respond to the visitor's blatantly lewd inspection. Several times her eyes travelled up and down. After the first traverse he thought he could have been overreacting, but after the third time he knew her behaviour was deliberate.

Quite suddenly things took an unexpected turn. The sissy paused. Thighs pressed together as an expression of dismay clouded his matchless complexion, then the hem of his scanty camisole became displaced as his naughty sissy-stick suddenly reared up, swollen and erect, bouncing slightly as he moved and swaying from side to side like a stiff-necked viper. With its peelips parted and leaking dribbles of tasty looking goo there was little doubt of a certain outcome.

Felicity's hips writhed and a small white gloved hand flew to his mouth as he grimaced with embarrassment. "Oh mummy, I..." The unexpected exhibition was far from complete, for Felicity's unbidden tent-pole began to shudder of its own volition, and with a desperate whimper he wiggled his fingers around it in a vicelike grip and started pumping his fist frantically, knees locked together, legs bending and straightening as he milked out his joy.

"Oooggghhh mummy - mumeeee! OoOOOOoooggghh, aaaAAAaaahhh!" There was nothing to be done. The creampuff's excitement was boiling over and the movements of his hand became unstoppable. He then uttered the sweetest scream as his sissy spermstorm erupted and laces of white juice flew around his hand, spluttering and swirling like lariats of cream.

"Dear me." exclaimed Mrs Pumphrey, just as if she'd just spilt tea into a saucer, "This always seems to happen when I ask him to show himself to strangers. I really must remember to insist the shameless girl keeps her panties on in the future."

Pretty Felicity continued humping with his own hand for several seconds before he felt able to stop, but Miss Hancock refused to be shocked. She'd seen such things too many times for that, and it was typical that she never yielded to an unseemly display of emotion. That would have been undignified, and dignity was an unchanging part of her.

Mrs Pumphrey responded by lightly smacking Felicity's saucy little bottom. "Oh really, sweetheart, you're incorrigible. Go and tidy yourself up at once, you naughty girl." She turned to Miriam showing an expression of slight concern. "That wasn't supposed to happen. I do hope such a little accident won't be an impediment to him attending Fairyfield Grange. They are quite rare."

Miriam suspected they happened quite a lot, but she made no comment about it. "Is Felicity acquainted with punishment?"

The woman nodded. "Nothing too harsh, but I find a mild spanking often works wonders with him. He becomes quite frisky and very amenable to wicked suggestions, and Felicity is very good at being a bad girl."

"I do have vacancies at Fairyfield, Miriam told her, "but the dear seems perfectly trained, and I feel I'd be stealing the money from your purse if I took him on. Have you ever considered placing her directly into a good private household? The world is full of sharks and charlatans of course so one has to be careful, but I'm in touch with two very respectable retired schoolmistress's who live together in Cheltenham and who are seeking a saucy little princess just such as her. They're both rather strict disciplinarians and rather quick with the slipper, but I rather think they'd be quite thrilled to witness Felicity's, um - little accidents. The other ladies and gentlemen they invite to their home are all rather old, but they're all wealthy have the most refined manners."

An excellent piece of business, thought Miriam Hancock as she drove down the road a little later to continue her journey. Mrs Pumphrey was enamoured by the prospect of receiving two or three hundred pounds for the placement of her sissy son instead of parting with fees for a term at Fairyfield. It was utterly out of character for Miriam to undermine her own business, but there were one or two things to bear in mind. The first was that she would undoubtedly gain a reputation for fair-mindedness that would travel far and wide in useful social circles.

And the second thing and not the least was, she was sure she could squeeze a thousand pounds out of the elderly ladies in Cheltenham for providing a sexy sissy such as Felicity. And since the whole arrangement had been left in her hands Mrs Pumphrey would never need to know that.

Before too long, and almost without her realising it, the majestic sweep of the road took her over the crest of a hillside, and soon afterwards she had a heart-lifting glimpse of the great wide plain of York and the distant rim of high moor land beyond.

***

Knowing she would have to stay overnight she took a room at a hotel in the centre of the city. Across the street was a chintzy Nuevo Caffe snack bar. She went in and ordered coffee. A large one. She was in no hurry now. She looked numbly at the crowds, at the queues for the tills. Feet scrapped all around her on the hard floor. Voices. What a difference to the countryside. How lucky she was she thought. How lovely it was not to be a part of the rat-race. To be able to wake up with the morning sun in her eyes, winter or summer. Woodcocks. Pheasants. Apples and plums. The song of the skylark and the harsh chack-chack of a merlin falcon.

As if on cue, a Louis Armstrong song began to play. Maybe it was only inside her head, but it didn't matter. She heard it. Her favourite tune. Her mantra. 'We Have All The Time In The World.' she hummed it as she collected up her latte, picked up two biscotti, paid for them and carried them over to a window seat where she settled down to study the people around her. A young couple with eyes for no one else; a solitary old woman with wire wool hair studying a street map; a middle-aged man ostentatiously holding the hand of a much younger one.

Someone slotted coins into one of those machines that dispensed into disposable cups for the in-a-hurry takeaway crowd. The machine burped and spat out brown liquid with the gurgle of a diarrhoeic creature of the night; there was a sharp clunk and the machine fell silent.

She sipped her coffee and placed her cup on the formica surface of a table top that shone like ice, then her eyes widened. On the table next to her own sat Angela Magoogle, a woman she'd not seen since Harrogate. And she hadn't changed. Her dresses tended to run to colours better suited to Easter eggs than a grown woman of thirty-nine.

Angela was wagging her finger and berating a weeping young woman seated opposite to her. At least she thought it was a young woman until experience kicked in, and then she realised it was an effeminately dressed young man. He could easily have fooled other people. He was luscious. A quailing fairy princess with the complexion of a sun-flushed peach. He was wearing a ruffled pale pink blouse and a little red rah-rah skirt that barely covered his stocking tops. Yes, definitely lacetop stockings and a G-string, she decided. On the back of his head was a broad-rimmed, flower-decked hat, a smart affair of wheat-coloured straw augmented with a pink rose and a ribbon.

"This is a surprise, Angela." she remarked.

Miss Magoogle gazed at her, her narrow eyes suddenly shrewd and sharp and sending an unmistakable message. Wordlessly she was informing her that the emasculated sparrow-like thing accompanying her was her pet. The hard stare softened as recognition locked in. "Miriam, it's been ages."

They had first met long ago when doing a Social Services course in London. In those days Angela had been a naïve young lady from the provinces who thought Belgravia was a foreign country, and on being invited to share Miriam's bed had enquired, 'Who exactly is Connie Lingus.'

Angela had been a fast learner though and there was no naivety about her now. They observed each other in the indefinable way people do when they recognise each other as sisters under the skin and can trust each other. The girly-thing distracted them both, sobbing over a glass of orange juice and pausing once in a while to dab his eyes with a tiny damp ball of lace-edge hanky.

"I expect you're puzzled about Jubilee." she said briskly whilst giving her younger companion a severe glance. "Say howdy-doody to my friend." she insisted, and the wimpish thing choked out a very polite "I'm very pleased to meet you, miss."

"Cease your snuffling," Angela snapped, "I've had quite enough of your nonsense today, young lady." With a look of distain she scooped the froth from her coffee and dumped it into the saucer. "Steamed milk. Out of ten I give this three."

Her eyes drifted. Jubilee was absolutely stunning, green-grey eyes wet with tears stared with wide-eyed innocence from a blemishless face. A retrousse nose enhanced his appearance, as did milky skin that was made to seem ever milkier by his sleek black hair, faultless with not a strand out of place. His figure was pure delight - the ideal girl pre-shrunk by forty percent in everything - full of freshness and offering the kind of unconventional sexuality men could only dream about. Cringing and pathetic he may be, and he looked like he could never lift anything heavier than a lipstick, but he was still the dishiest cuddlebunch she'd seen in ages.

"A dear thing such as you have here must require some care. He must be constantly besieged by admirers."

Angela nodded. "He came to me as a houseboy six months ago and stayed to become something quite different," she explained, "I still have some links with the Probation Service. I'm valued as someone who can prevent young people getting into trouble with the law. I've a studio-room at home where I quell arrogance and antisocial behaviour. Nothing special. Just a place where misconduct can be rectified by a little mild torture."

Her glance at Jubilee was sharp enough to make the sweet young treasure quiver, but she retained a smile of charm for Miriam. "I tie them to the furniture and refuse to let them go until they submit to wearing lipstick and a frock. Just like you I'm out of Social Services now, but my hobby keeps me fully occupied. You'll know what I mean. One doesn't need to be Einstein to know that you'll still have some interest in such things."

"Jubilee seems rather upset." Miriam remarked.

Angela offered a tight smile. "Crocodile tears searching for sympathy. We came into town for a few hours of inspiring culture, but the silly girl as ruined it. I blame myself. I've rather spoilt her." she indicated the front of the effeminates blouse where a pair of pert bumps pushed out the material. "I gave her a pair of little breasts for her birthday, and now the little tramp can't stop shaking them at every man she meets"

She leaned aggressively across the table and gave her youthful companion a thunderous look. "Just wait until I get you home, you shameless hussy. I'm going to put a wooden spoon to the back of your legs, and then you'll stand in the corner for an hour."